Alice, The Before Years
by Juliette Tomassino
Summary: What if Alice had not been in an asylum ...
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1: Secret_

It wasn't the fear of death or pain that haunted me about these recurring dreams, if that's what they really were. It was the unknown. Who were these ivory strangers that I was 'seeing' so frequently? They were beautiful and everything about them said, "welcome".

When I was very young my parents were worried that something was wrong with me; I was little, so much smaller than anyone else my age. They took me to our town physician, Dr. Weber. He said I was fine. I liked him, he was my best friend Angela's dad and he gave me an orange lollipop. Not satisfied, my parents took me to doctors in other cities, but they all said I was ok, I was just little. Even then I felt my parents never really believed any of them. They would fret and wring their hands when they didn't think I was looking. But I always noticed little things like that.

But my size suited _me_. I dreamed of being a dancer. I loved moving my body gracefully and I would pirouette around the furniture and pretend to waltz in the hall. I would fix my long shiny brown hair in buns as I saw dancers do in books. Others times I would leave it down around my shoulders. I liked the way it felt, softly grazing my neck as I turned in circles.

I begged my parents for lessons. My best friend Angela was taking them from a lady who lived in the house behind her. Sometimes Angela would show me some of the steps she had learned. But mother and father had to pay for Cynthia's piano lessons. Cynthia was gifted they told me; she needed to take lessons from a man who lived in Gulfport. He was a virtuoso having played for the New York Philharmonic. He was taking on only one new student and he wanted to work with Cynthia. She was so excited!

I loved listening to her play! Her fingers would dance across the keys while I danced around the piano. Those were happy carefree times. I thought that was how my life would always be.

The waking dreams started when I was nine. The first time it happened it scared me. In my mind I saw a big dog knock Cynthia down and attack her. I saw her trying to fight back as the dog took hold of her fingers, ripping skin and breaking bones. I saw that she'd never play the piano again. I screamed for my parents. They came running and scared off the dog. Nothing happened to Cynthia, she wasn't even afraid.

My parents assumed that I screamed when I saw or maybe heard the big dog. I didn't mention what I had seen; the vivid vision had me paralyzed and sick to my stomach. I stood in that spot, unable to move. When my parents were sure Cynthia wasn't hurt, my mother came to where I still stood frozen, and I nearly jumped out of my shoes.

The visions weren't always horrible. Sometimes they were small and insignificant, like knowing that mother was fixing liver and onions for dinner – giving me time to pretend I was sick so I could miss the meal. I would walk in the door from school holding my stomach and ask if I could lie down. It worked every time. But I knew it would, I could always 'see' that it would.

I never told anyone what I saw. I think I instinctively knew that it would either scare people or they would think I was crazy. I was especially prudent at home. I learned to just stare into space when a vision was coming. I found that if I concentrated, it was easier to see what was ahead. My carefully concealed secret was mine and mine alone. I didn't even tell Cynthia.


	2. Chapter 2

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

Chapter 2: Baseball

Baseball! The summer was ruled by it, and the New York Giants were our family favorite. Father would bring home a newspaper in the evenings and we would read about the games and the players. It was the best part of the day. And I was always waiting for news about my favorite player, Christy Mathewson, or "Matty" as they called him in the papers. He was a pitcher. The papers described him as a handsome, tall, blue-eyed blonde. My mind guessed at what he looked like.

Secretly I imagined that I would dance with him someday. We would be alone in the middle of a dance floor whirling gracefully. Everyone else would press themselves to the sides of the room to give us space. It was a wonderful dream. After father would read about the games, I would twirl around the living room, pretending to dance with my blonde hero.

The 1911 World Series had been disappointing. We lost four games to two. I just knew my Giants would go to the series this year. But I tried not to think about the series itself; when I did, I would get a dark feeling about it. I didn't like the way it felt, so I concentrated on regular season.

Matty was a wonderful pitcher! He had a fadeaway that fooled the batters every time. One night as father read aloud about Mathewson's amazing pitching, the paper quoted him as saying "Anybody's best pitch is the one the batters aren't hitting that day." There was something about him that was so humble. No wonder all us girls were dreaming about dancing with him someday.

When I wasn't dreaming about dancing with him, I was outside practicing my game. I would look behind my shoulder, making sure no one was watching as I stood on my non-existent pitcher's mound. I would hold my pretend ball with both hands in the air, away from my body. With the imagined speed of a cobra, I would spin the ball to home plate. Of course I struck them out every time.

As I stood on that mound playing alone, a hazy thought grazed the outside of my mind. I was daydreaming. I was playing ball with only a few people. The baseball diamond seemed out of focus, like it was too big. The ball would crack like thunder when it was hit and my fellow players would run with blinding speed to catch it. I imagined slapping hands high in the air with my teammates when we would win the game

Despite my love for the game, no one would ever let me play. They would say I was too little. I just knew I could be good if they'd give me a chance. Our schoolyard had a baseball diamond outlined in the grass. On one humid summer day, all the kids in my neighborhood converged on that spot. Angela, Jessica and I walked to the school together chattering about Matty and his amazing pitching. The air was full of the imagined sounds of hundreds of people cheering on our New York Giants. We stood on the pitcher's mound just aching to copy the spoken moves of our favorite team.

The dreaded line-up. Of course Mike and Ben were team captains – they always were. I hated the line-up. I always knew I'd be picked last and that they'd never let me play. But for some reason today I was more optimistic about my chances. I gripped my father's glove and stood as tall as my tiny frame would allow, willing one of them to pick me. Angela whispered something into Ben's ear and he chose me to be on his team. And I wasn't picked last! I beamed appreciatively at Angela.

Reluctantly Ben put me in centerfield. I admit I was nervous. As much as I had practiced alone in my backyard, I'd never really played before. I bent my knees and put my hands on them as my whole body concentrated on the bat that an unfriendly girl named Lauren was holding. She stood at the plate. The ball was pitched and she hit it awkwardly. She let go of the bat as she ran clumsily to first base. Ben, our pitcher, easily picked it off the ground and lobbed it to the baseman. Our first out.

The next person at-bat was one of my friends, Jessica. She stood confidently at home plate. I liked the way she twirled the bat in the air while she waited for the pitch. The ball was thrown and Jessica twisted and swung, connecting with the ball with a crack. The ball soared in the air … and right to me! I was already moving. I ran forward, put out my hand and the ball easily plopped into the mitt. I stopped and stared at the ball in my glove, my mouth open wide in shock.

For a split second the schoolyard was silent and then it erupted into hoots and hollers.

I heard Angela yell "nice catch!"

When I looked up my team was jumping up and down, laughing excitedly.

Mike's team was stunned and I heard a voice I couldn't identify mutter "you mean _lucky_ catch".

I threw the ball to our first baseman and ran back to my spot. It was hard to contain my elation. It was so delicious!

The next person at bat was Eric. He didn't give me a glance, he was all business. He stepped up to the plate, touched the bat to it ritualistically, and assumed his batting stance, leaning back on his right leg. The first ball was pitched, it was a little low and Eric let it go. He swung and missed the second and third. He hit the fourth, a little grounder, and barely made it to first base.

The next batter was a girl I didn't recognize. She stood timidly at the plate. It was an easy 1-2-3 you're out.

I ran in. My team was sparkling with pride as they patted me on the shoulders and mussed my hair. I don't think I've ever smiled so big in my life!

They let me bat first. I walked to the plate wanting to look as confident as Jessica had. I copied the way Eric had stood and twirled my bat in the air. Mike was pitching. I let out a breath of air. In my mind I saw the ball. I knew it was going to be a little high and outside. I raised my elbows instinctively as I wound to swing. I threw my entire body into it.

I connected! I could hear the ball whooshing as it sailed into the air. I stood motionless as I watched it fly. My teammates were screaming "run … run … run!"

I let go of the bat and ran to first. The outfielder had not caught the ball. I ran to second, my ponytail bobbing with each step. Without even stopping to see where the ball was, I ran to third fluidly rounding the base to home plate. I scored! My team met me at home with their hands held out. I slapped each one of them as I jumped on home base laughing with the sheer joy and happiness of the moment.

We went on to win the game.

Everyone was mystified by my prowess. They couldn't believe that a little bitty like me could actually field and swing. I should have been surprised. But I wasn't. I'd always known I'd be good at it … if they'd just give me a chance.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Chapter 3: School_

None of us were ready for school to start. It had been a wonderful summer. Our Giants were going to win the pennant and go on to the World Series. I knew it.

Angela, Jessica and I lived on the same block. Our homes were small but they had a lot of character. Mine was white with pale blue shutters and a matching door. It was two storeys and it had a porch all around it. My family and I would sit on it in the evenings and drink lemonade as father read to us about the Giants.

My friend's houses were very similar, just different colors. There were trees everywhere in my neighborhood and they were covered in Spanish moss. When the wind blew, the branches would sway lazily and create a soft hush of sound that would finger its way through my hair. I loved that sound. Sometimes when we sat outside, Cynthia would play the piano and the breeze would accompany her. I loved those moments.

Angela and Jessica had agreed to meet at my house to walk to school together. Cynthia and I had butterflies, first day of school jitters I guess you'd say, so we were ready before it was time. We waited on the deck for Angela and Jessica to arrive.

Our red brick schoolhouse had a flat roof and was in the shape of the letter L. The longer half of the shape was where the individual classrooms were located, grades kindergarten through 12. I was in seventh grade and Cynthia was in third. The shorter side was an auditorium where plays were held. It had a stage with long velvet curtains, lots of folding chairs and a piano.

Angela, Jessica and I sat at our little wooden desks, side-by-side. We folded our hands respectfully and quietly waited for our teacher. Her name was Miss Madeline and this would be our third year with her. She came into the class and smiled at all of us. She was a heavy-set, older lady with dark hair piled high on her head like whipped cream on a piece of apple pie. She had on a cream-colored blouse with lace high around her neck and around her wrists. Her full dirt brown skirt practically dragged the ground.

She wore a beautiful cameo necklace every day. I noticed that she would put her fingers to it from time to time. Her expression was always wistful. When she would do this, I would get a picture of a handsome stranger. I imagined the two of them holding hands and walking down a boardwalk together. In my mind's eye they seemed very happy. I wondered who and where this gentleman was.

Today she had a stack of papers in her hands. She set them on her desk and studied the top sheet for a moment. Then she called role. Each one of us raised our hands and said 'present' when we heard our names. Nobody was absent today. When she had finished, she faced us all with her hands clasped in front of her. I just knew she had some interesting news she was dying to share.

"Good morning children" she said pleasantly.

"Good morning Miss Madeline" we chorused in return.

"This year we will be studying the usual, reading, writing and arithmetic." Her statement was met with a few hushed groans. She squinted and pursed her lips at the sound.

"But …" and she seemed uncharacteristically excited "we have an unusual opportunity this year." She didn't say anything else, only looked at us all expectantly as she let the unstated pique our interest.

"This year, we will be able to participate in the school play."

A low rumbling of voices followed her proclamation. The three of us looked at each other, eyes flashing. There was always a play at the end of the school year, but never had the lower grades been invited to participate. Acting in the play had been restricted to the tenth, eleventh and twelfth grades. We were thrilled!

The play we would put on was called "Church Picnic".

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Chapter 4: Confluence_

Before anyone could try out for the play, we had to be passing all our classes. The school wouldn't let anyone try out who had poor marks in their subjects. I was lucky; school had always been easy for me. I struggled the most in math, but if I really concentrated on the problems, I would eventually see the answer. Angela and Jessica were good students too.

I was worried about Cynthia, she had a harder time with school work. But I just knew that because of her remarkable piano playing talent she'd be allowed. She studied really hard so she'd be eligible. I knew she'd make it. I knew my father would go into the school and speak with the principal. He would convince him. My mother would volunteer to sew the costumes.

I hoped there would be dancing in the play. When I considered the name of the production, "Church Picnic", it seemed to me like there would be dancing of some sort. I could just see myself in a peach colored dress with a full skirt and frilly slip. I imagined carrying a white parasol and opening and closing it as part of the choreography. My mind told me I was very graceful and that the teachers would want me to dance. My mind's eye version of things was very flattering.

School dragged as we waited for try-outs. We all tried hard and were especially studious each day. The classroom was very quiet. I started to notice that Miss Madeline seemed flustered and lost. When I should be writing my letters or figuring math, I was watching her instead. Her hand would go to her throat to touch the cameo … but the necklace was not around her neck. That was very unusual. I don't think I could remember a time when she wasn't wearing it. Each time she was reminded it was missing, it was as if she were remembering something very sad.

I asked Angela and Jessica if they'd noticed anything different. They just looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. I tried not to think about it, but it was always in the back of my mind. It was like my thoughts were trying to lead me to an answer for an unstated question.

As I fretted about Miss Madeline, I was getting a shadowy picture in my mind. It was a dark room with a shaft of light peaking through heavy drapes that were slightly open. I could see a desk that was battered looking. On the desk was a piece of paper with handwriting on it, a few pencils and a green lamp. There was dark paneling on the walls and a sage green overstuffed chair in the corner with a blue blanket draped across the back.

My mind seemed to focus on the desk. I didn't know if it was just because of the light or if there was something significant about it. The desk had a center drawer and a bank of three more drawers on one side. The bottom drawer was open slightly. A piece of dark blue luxurious looking material was visible; my mind tunnel-visioned on that fabric.

I didn't know what it meant.

When I wasn't studying, thinking about the play or worrying about Miss Madeline, I was following baseball. Our Giants had indeed made it to the World Series as predicted. They would be playing the Boston Red Sox, a formidable team.

I tried not to show how I was feeling. I knew they were going to lose. I knew it would be close, but in the end they would lose. I just knew it. I couldn't say it out loud though; people were just too excited about it. Hearing about Our Players brought our little community together. I just couldn't be the one to destroy the euphoria simmering around me.

Our Giants had barely lost the first game to Boston. The second game was an 11-inning tie! Dad was on his feet as he read the account of that game! We won the third, lost the fourth and fifth and came back to win the sixth and my Giants beat the Red Sox 11-4 in the seventh game. My father called it a "real shut-out"!

The final, Game 8 was scheduled for October 16. Today! There was a buzz of excitement rippling through the school. Even the usually stern teachers were feeling a little more lighthearted.

That night was excruciating. We knew Our Team was playing, but we had to wait until our fathers could bring home a paper the next day to hear about it. Cynthia was playing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" on the piano, I was sitting on the stairs and my parents were dancing an ungainly polka in the hallway. I watched with astonishment.

My parents were not given to public displays of affection. In fact, it was strictly forbidden. They would hold each other's hands, but they felt it was absolutely unacceptable to do more than that when in public - even in their own home. I almost felt like I was eavesdropping as I realized for the first time that my parents actually loved each other.

They became winded, I think both by the physical nature of their dance and also their unabashed closeness. They stopped dancing and let their arms drop. They continued to gaze at each other and you could see how much in love they still were. I couldn't make myself look away. I hoped I would feel that someday.

As unusual as it was for my parents to dance, it was equally unusual for me _not_ to dance. When they felt my stare, they both turned and looked at the same time their eyebrows furrowed and that familiar distress clouded their eyes. In perfect synchronicity they clasped their hands and twisted at their fingers apprehensively.

"What is it?" they said in unison.

Their question caught me off guard.

"Wh-what do you mean" I stuttered.

They looked at each other then simultaneously turned to look at me again.

"You've got that look on your face …"

I looked away to gather my thoughts. I guess I hadn't kept my secret so well after all. I strained to come up with an answer. As I did, I was momentarily jealous of Cynthia. She was still playing the piano, lost in her baseball fantasy. I dully said the thing that had been bouncing around in my head.

"The Giants are going to lose."

Blasphemy. Why had I said that? To utter such words was absolute blasphemy. My parents' mouths tightened into a white line. I couldn't read their expressions. Worry? Anger? Dread? It was a jumble of them all. They stared at me for a long, long, long time. I became uncomfortable and fidgeted with the hem of my skirt.

My mother was the first to move. She put a hand to her forehead then straightened some locks that had come loose from the careful knot in her hair. She smoothed out her skirt. Then she looked at me hard. A reflexive lump constricted in my throat. My father read my wide-eyed reaction.

"Well." … uncomfortable pause. "That's enough celebration."

He looked at mother.

"Dinnertime then?"

Mother acknowledged with a nod and wordlessly turned to the kitchen.

"Come with me, Alice." My father said with patriarchal authority.

I followed him into his den as the final notes "… at the old ball game" serenaded our departure.

This part of our house was strictly off-limits to Cynthia and me. So even though I was very frightened I couldn't help but look around. I was surrounded by bookshelves. They were made of a deep mahogany as was the regal looking desk and chair in which my father now sat. I stared at the volumes and volumes of books. How I longed to reach up and touch some of them and read their covers.

"Ahem" my father cleared his throat to get my attention.

"Yes sir." I said timidly.

He became a little more gentle as he looked at me.

Solemnly he said, "When you say the Giants are going to lose, what do you mean?"

I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I closed my mouth and stared at him.

"Alice" he let out a breath "what do you mean?"

What could I do but answer?

Nervously I blurted "Snodgrass is going to drop a fly ball in the bottom of the tenth inning … we're going to lose."

I pulled at a thread that was loose from the button on my sleeve. I did not look at my father. I swung my legs nervously as my feet did not reach the floor. I heard the swivel chair squeak as my father turned away from me. I peaked up at him through my eyelashes. His head was leaned all the way back in the chair and his eyes were closed. His hands were together, almost as if he was praying, and his fingers were splayed.

A great deal of time passed. Enough time to smell that mother was cooking meatloaf for dinner. I heard the chair squeak again. I didn't want to look up. My father got up from his chair and walked over to me. He stood beside me for a long moment. Then he knelt down, eyes level with mine.

"Mary Alice." It was a statement.

I looked up at him, frightened. His eyes had softened.

He tried again.

"Mary Alice. You must not speak of this to anyone. Not anyone. Not even Cynthia or Angela or Jessica." He tenderly put his hands on my shoulders never breaking eye contact.

"Do you understand?"

I did understand. And I wasn't afraid of him. He seemed simply overwhelmed.

"Yes sir." I whispered.

He examined my features for a long time before he spoke again.

"Now run along and help your mother get the table ready for dinner."

He easily pulled me off the chair. He hugged me briefly then sent me scampering to the kitchen to help mother with dinner.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

_Chapter 5: Convergence _

_Church Picnic_

I sat in class. Everyone was having a hard time concentrating. We all just wanted to get home and hear about the game from the newspaper. The teachers felt it too. So instead of trying to get through any schoolwork, the teachers announced that the first tryouts for the play would start today.

Dancers were first. I was ecstatic!

The lady who lived behind Angela's house was the choreographer, her name was Miss Emily. Anyone who wanted to try out as a dancer was invited to the auditorium. Miss Emily asked Angela to come and show the girls some of the dance steps she had learned in her class, the same dance steps Angela had shown me. Angela asked if I could come and show the class too. Miss Emily said yes. I remembered them perfectly! Miss Emily had the rest of the girls' line up and copy the steps.

As she watched and instructed, she told us all about the costumes. She rummaged around in a trunk she had brought with her. She pulled out a white parasol and announced that each dancer would hold one as a prop. From the same trunk she pulled yards of peach-colored material. She told us the dresses would be made from this fabric. I smiled to myself.

Miss Emily looked at the clock on the wall. The first practice was over. We lined up, waiting to return to our classroom. As we waited Miss Emily said that every one of us would be able to dance in the play. We all squealed and jumped up and down as we giggled and hugged each other.

Miss Madeline came to return us to class. She came through the door and I saw her smile as she watched us jump up and down. She put her hand to her neck to stroke the missing cameo. Her eyes were immediately sad. At that moment, my erratic thoughts made sense.

_Miss Madeline _

I hung back. I wanted to talk to Miss Madeline alone. I had seen my parents' reactions to my sight, I had no idea how Miss Madeline would react. I didn't want anyone else to hear me. I was only 13; exactly what did I think I was going to say? I took in a really deep breath and stood behind her; I cleared my throat.

"Hello dear." She said maternally.

"Um … Miss Madeline …"

"Yes dear?"

She reached for the cameo again, meeting only empty space where it should have been. It was just the 'in' I needed. I seized the opportunity.

"When you reach for your necklace, you look so sad."

Miss Madeline was stunned. She studied me. Her eyes became moist with tears.

"The cameo was a gift from my husband."

Gratefully she didn't notice my reaction. It had never occurred to me that the gentleman in my thoughts had been her husband.

She continued, almost oblivious to my presence.

"He gave it to me the day he asked me to marry him." Her wistful look continued.

"He died from pneumonia ... we'd been married just two years …" Her voice cracked then trailed off as she put her hand to her throat, searching in vain for the precious gift.

She shook her head slightly, consciously bringing herself back. She looked at me, bewildered by my insightfulness. She tried to lighten things up.

"The cameo reminds me of him. But I've lost it. I don't know where it is. So I suppose you could say I feel sad each time I'm reminded it's missing."

I took a deep breath. It was now or never.

I looked down at my shoes and then in a jumble I blurted, "I had a dream. I dreamt about a beat up desk in a dark room with very little light coming in from a window. On the desk is paper, a few pencils and a green lamp. There is a light green overstuffed chair in the corner with a dark blue blanket thrown across the back. In the bottom drawer of the desk is a piece of cloth that looks like velvet. I think your cameo is in that drawer."

I stopped talking abruptly and looked at her questioningly, my fingers drumming against each other, fearful of her response.

Unconsciously Miss Madeline took a step away from me. But she didn't look scared. She was staring straight ahead. It appeared to me that she was trying to remember something she'd seen, or maybe where she'd seen it. Then she smiled eagerly.

"That room is very familiar. It's at my mother's home." Realization dawned on her face with a rush.

"I visited my mother a few weeks ago. She lives in Mobile. I had never put it together before now. I must have left the necklace at her home by mistake!"

Miss Madeline was almost giddy. She hugged me. I was not expecting such a response; so I stood there, limp. She released herself from me, again clutching at the empty space at her neck.

"Thank you, Alice, thank you!"

I felt tears welling in my eyes as she so genuinely – and without fear – thanked me for telling her about my 'dream'.

"You're welcome, ma'am." I said smiling.

She beckoned me to follow and we went back to class.

_Game Eight_

Cynthia and I raced each other home. She was beside herself, wanting to hear the outcome of the final World Series game between our New York Giants and the Boston Red Sox. I wasn't as eager. I was afraid. What if Snodgrass really did drop the ball in the bottom of the tenth? What did that mean?

It's one thing to envision your sister being attacked by a dog – that can be explained away. I saw the dog in my peripheral vision; the dog looked rabid; or I heard a sinister growl. None of those things had happened but it was easy to let my parents think they had. Actually, they had just assumed – and I had let them. But _this_ – predicting that a player would drop a critical catch when the win was right in front of them? This was something else entirely. I hoped I was wrong.

I wanted to be wrong.

As we loped around the corner, I could see my father sitting on the porch. I did not like what I felt. Cynthia, her childlike countenance not tainted by second sight, did not notice the expression on father's face. I did. He hid it well though. He stood up with his arms out encouraging his 8-year old daughter to jump into his arms. He did not have as warm a welcome for me. And like a vision, I realized why my parents were so rattled. It wasn't that I had predicted the outcome of the game but that _I could_. For someone who could read the future, it was an epiphany for me.

I sat on the step, clutching my books to me. My father put on the proper show as he read the article describing how Our Giants lost the game. When he read about the tenth inning and how Snodgrass muffed the fly ball, he turned his body away from me. I drew my legs up and hugged them to me. He continued the article, reading about the incredible catch made by Snodgrass on the very next play. I didn't hear the rest.

Our Giants lost to the Red Sox 3-2.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

_Chapter 6: Preparations_

My mother had almost finished the peach dress I would be wearing in the play. She called for me and asked me to stand on a stool so she could adjust the hem if necessary. She had finished all the other girls' dresses first. Things had never been the same with mother. She wasn't mean to me. She wasn't anything to me. I think I would have preferred a slap in the face to the nothingness. She almost cringed if she had to make contact with me. It was agonizing.

I did what I was told. I stepped up onto the stool and stood as still as a statue. If she told me to turn, I turned. I followed her instructions with precision. I was afraid to make her angry. Could anything be worse than the nothingness? I didn't want to find out. Father was better, but still aloof. At least he would smile at me. Mother wouldn't look at me on the rare occasion she was forced to speak to me directly. I think it hurt father to see mother treat me so impassively.

Cynthia and I were great. She wasn't old enough to maintain fear or indifference to me. Or maybe she was just nicer. Either way I didn't care. She would still play and I would still dance … unless mother was in the room. When mother caught me dancing I could see veins bulging in her forehead. I wondered if she'd even come to the play. But of course she would, Cynthia would be playing. I realized that I had always known Cynthia was mother's favorite.

Mother had outdone herself on Cynthia's dress. She had purchased shiny white buttons, silk ribbon and tiny peach colored flowers to adorn the garment. And she had made hers first. Cynthia looked beautiful in it. Mother had also made a bow for Cynthia's hair. It complimented the rich brown of her shoulder length ringlets very nicely. Cynthia looked radiant.

I preferred being at school. I worried that Miss Madeline would, over time, begin to treat me differently as my mother had. But she was still so grateful. She would put her hand to her retrieved necklace and smile in my direction. It was always very quick, something no one else would pick up on – but I did. Maintaining a friendship with my teacher had become very, very important to me.

We spent a lot of time practicing for the play. The girls had three dances. The first dance would be the play opener. We would stand in two lines. There were nine girls in front and eight girls in back. The lines were staggered so that each girl would be visible to the audience. We stood facing the audience with our left hand hitched on our hip. Our right foot was slightly turned, toes in the air, weight on the heel. Our right hands held the parasol with the point on the ground as if it were a cane. Cynthia would play a few notes so we knew when to begin.

I loved twirling with the parasol and jumping around gracefully. It was so freeing. When I was dancing nothing else mattered. The smiles came so easily and naturally. I would go in the backyard by my fantasy pitching mound and practice the dance moves over and over. I could do them in my sleep and soon the dance moves became part of my dreams, whether I was asleep or awake. I was dancing with "Matty" Mathewson or at least someone who resembled him. He would smile at me as I looked into his blue eyes and I would almost sparkle as we swayed back and forth. When things were unbearable with Mother, I would let my mind go there, losing myself in the beauty of it.

The play was scheduled for the last week of school. It was very smart of the teachers to schedule it as such. It kept all the students who were involved focused on their studies - they didn't want to be replaced. Rehearsals were every afternoon after lunch. Cynthia and I practiced every day after school. She would play the songs and I would perform my dance steps - until mother noticed. She would sit next to Cynthia on the piano bench and coo over her technique. I would turn stiff, careful not to show any emotion.

It was finally the night before the play. Even though I could 'see' people clapping and smiling in my mind, I was still nervous. I saw beautiful dancing accompanied flawlessly by Cynthia, stunning in her fancy peach dress. But I was apprehensive. Usually when I had this kind of 'feeling', it meant something bad or at the very least unpleasant was going to happen. I figured I was just nervous.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

_Chapter 7: Beacon_

The children who were participating in the play did not go home after school on the night of the performance. We were required to stay. We swept the floor of the auditorium and stage, set up chairs, and prepared four tables at the back of the room for refreshments that were being provided by the parents.

An hour before the play began Miss Madeline had us each change into our costumes. The boys remained in the auditorium to change and the girls were shuttled to individual classrooms. Teachers stood out in the hall to assure that nothing was amiss. We animatedly put on our frilly slips, matching peach dresses, patent leather Mary Jane's, and white elbow length gloves. We squealed with delight as we sashayed around the room, unable to contain our pent up nerves and excitement.

After knocking, Miss Madeline came into the classroom. She surveyed us with tears in her eyes. She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt for a handkerchief. Even with the adrenaline flowing like it was, each one of us noted her behavior. Miss Madeline was passionately reserved. Angela, Jessica and I looked back and forth at each other and then at our teacher.

"You all look so beautiful!" she declared dabbing at her eyes.

Our mouths gaped as we watched her reaction.

She reached for her cameo then said, "Come along, girls!"

We bunched at the door waiting to make our way to the auditorium. I contemplated Miss Madeline. She didn't know it, but she rescued me every day. She was a haven for me from a home that had ceased to be loving, ceased to be affectionate. She was the lighthouse and I was the lost soul searching for a beacon. I needed her. I saw her caress her cameo as I brought up the rear of the line. I smiled. Still teary, she smiled back.

The 17 dancers were behind the curtain. Every now and again we would peak out at the audience, unable to curtail our enthusiasm. And with each stolen glance, we would get more and more lathered up. We each practiced our dance steps, eager to get everything right and make our families proud. Our almost frenzied anticipation slowed time. It was like we could hear each second ticking on the clock. Soon we would all explode.

Miss Madeline whispered to us to get into our spots. She put her finger to her lips and then turned, parted the velvet curtains slightly and disappeared from our view to address the audience. We lined up silently, adjusting our skirts and hair one last time. We stood in our positions and smiled. It was finally time. We could not understand what Miss Madeline said, but we knew when Cynthia started to play that the curtains would soon open. Miss Madeline came back on stage and motioned to us to stand tall, look at the audience and smile wide. We readily complied.

She opened the curtains. We heard the familiar notes and we started dancing.

The play was wonderful! With the exception of one scene where the boy playing the Sheriff accidentally fell into the scenery everything went exceedingly well. Even that little blunder was ok, as he was able to work his mishap into the scene as if it was meant to be.

People laughed and gasped appropriately as we all performed our moves and lines as rehearsed. The play ended with the Sheriff lifting his new wife up into his arms and walking off the set. The curtains closed.

We all lined up for our final bows. The curtains opened and the audience was on their feet. I couldn't help but get teary as I saw my father loudly clapping and whistling. Even my overly reserved mother was clapping and crying. Miss Madeline walked onto the stage. We all stayed in our places as she spoke to the crowd.

"I am so pleased with our cast and crew this year! Everyone has worked so hard. Could I please have the stage crew come out?"

The crew walked out to whistles and applause.

"And to Cynthia Brandon our pianist!"

Miss Madeline motioned in her direction. I cheered extra loud for my little sister. Mother exuberantly walked to the piano and handed Cynthia a bundle of peach colored roses.

When the clapping died down and people were seated again, Miss Madeline began to speak. Her voice was thick with emotion.

"I am so proud of these children! Not only did they do a marvelous job, but they have each maintained excellent marks in their schoolwork. They have really gone the extra mile this year."

The apprehension I had been feeling filled my throat with bile. Miss Madeline was building to something. I could sense it, could anyone else? I didn't dare turn my head for fear mother would see. My eyes teared up. She couldn't leave. She just couldn't! Who would be there for me, if only a welcome smile? Could I bear life without my surrogate mother? I made myself listen as she spoke.

"It is with much regret and sadness that I must announce I will no longer be teaching at this school. My mother has become very ill. She needs someone to provide more constant care for her. I will be moving to Mobile permanently."

Parents and students alike gasped. You could hear sniffles from the students on stage. I was already crying, feeling the warm tears on my cheeks. In a rough and halting voice Miss Madeline continued.

"I love your children. They are beautiful and full of potential." Her hand went to her cameo.

"I will miss them all. Thank you. Thank you for your support all these years."

She put her fingertips to her lips and pushed kisses out to the crowd. She turned and looked at each of us. She was crying. She lingered lovingly on my face as her hand again went to her necklace. I nodded slightly at her as I stifled a sob. She turned and walked away.

Families rushed the stage. Each actor and dancer was being hugged by a parent or good-naturedly jabbed in the arm by a sibling. Everyone but me. I didn't take one step. I could see Mother and Father standing by the piano, praising Cynthia. I felt so unattached and so alone. No one noticed me; no one noticed the heavy storm of emotion spilling from my eyes.

When at last my feet would move, I rushed to the classroom where we had changed earlier. The room was dark. I hastily changed out of my costume then carefully hung the slip and dress on a hanger, and placed the shoes, gloves and parasol back in Miss Emily's trunk. I looked around frantically for a sanctuary, someplace were I could be alone. In the corner of the room was a table and chairs. I padded to the dark space and let myself sink into the void now present in my heart and soul. The light that had been keeping me afloat had been extinguished. I curled into myself, grieving.

Too quickly I heard the bustling of feet and high-pitched chatter moving toward the classroom. By the time the girls entered the room, I had sneaked near the door. The frenzied melee continued as I skirted out the door unnoticed. With calculated steps I walked back to the auditorium. I could not let Mother know how I felt.

I swiped at my eyes one last time and took a deep breath as I entered the room. Both Father and Mother were standing in front of the piano listening as Cynthia reprised the music from the play. Tonight not even Cynthia's music could quell the heavy burden of dread that rattled in my chest.

At that moment I realized - I didn't belong anywhere.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

_Chapter 8: Understanding_

The expansive summer already felt bleak.

Miss Madeline was never coming back. The play was over. I couldn't even get excited about baseball. I spent a lot of time in my bedroom or the backyard.

I was being pummeled with visions these days. There were three kinds. There were the big life-altering visions, the small trivial manifestations, and the hazy, dark and confusing images that danced on the edges of my consciousness. They often scared me.

I had predetermined that I would never again speak about these visions. I took the magnitude of time to hone my response to the visions. I wanted to teach myself how to remain unchanged when a vision came to me. The trivial ones were easier. They didn't affect me tangibly, like the big ones or the hazy ones. I also wanted to more believably show surprise as if I _didn't_ know something beforehand. In essence, I wanted to become a good liar. I didn't much like thinking of it like that, but it was a matter of self-preservation. The void left by mother was getting bigger.

One day I was sitting on the grass in the backyard. I got a picture of mother opening mail that father had brought from the Post Office. I knew there was a letter from Cynthia's piano teacher announcing a recital. My parents would beam as they read his flowery compliments of their young protégé. I worked at acting surprised. It wasn't hard. People would often mistake happiness for surprise and I was genuinely happy and proud. The way her hands moved up and down the keys was mesmerizing.

Another day, as I tried to be invisible in my bedroom, I envisioned a mouse running through the kitchen. I was grateful to be alone, because I laughed out loud at the sight of mother screaming and grabbing for a broom. They would set traps when father got home.

I hadn't had a big vision in quite some time, not since I realized that Miss Madeline was leaving. But I was having recurring hazy images that sometimes felt like a hallucination. When it came, all pretenses of acting casual melted away. I had to really concentrate to decipher what my mind was trying to tell me. At first they were just dark snatches and I would turn cold each time. With time, crystalline shards of light accompanied the images. That was when they quit frightening me, instead I was curious. But the thoughts remained on the outskirts of my mind.

And so the never-ending summer went on.

I pretended to fit in at home. Mother pretended to like me. I wished I could turn off how I was feeling. If I could just not want her to love me, or if I didn't have to see how she treated Cynthia. I was relieved and pleased that mother loved Cynthia. There was something so sweet and uncomplicated about my little sister. She saw only what was good in the world.

As I analyzed my situation, I came to an understanding. I could 'see' so Cynthia didn't have too. It was a price I was willing to pay.

One rainy Saturday afternoon I was sitting in my room, alone, staring out into the trees. A plinking staccato on Cynthia's piano mimicked the drops of rain at the window. As I wandered through my mind, I thought about mother. My eyes flew open as I tensed; I knew a big vision was coming. I was sitting cross-legged on my bed when it began. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was a rush of colors and events swimming at me with confusing fluidity. I couldn't make any sense of it initially. But then I started seeing a familiar face in the rush of pictures; it was a younger version of mother.

When the stream of information was over, I was in the same position on my bed. I understood now. Mother had second sight. I quickly tried to pick through the images before they fluttered out of my mind, maybe forever. I couldn't piece together events, but I could piece together feelings. Mother had been ostracized because of her dreams. She had taught herself not to see them, now believing the ability was gone.

I fell back onto my pillow as I straightened my legs, heavy breaths thundering in my chest. I stared at the ceiling trying to comprehend. Mother hated me because I had the sight, but it didn't make sense to me at all. I felt like she, of all people, would understand – that I should be able to find a comforting embrace or a knowing glance, like Miss Madeline.

I was missing something.

What was it?

That night it woke me out of a sound sleep. Mother hated me because she made herself stop. She was jealous. It explained things. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

The next morning I went to the kitchen for breakfast. Mother was squeezing orange juice for Cynthia. As always, she didn't look at me. I sat forward in my chair and watched her every move. She knew, _without_ looking, that I was watching her. Maybe she still had the sight. I could see the muscles in her jaw flexing. She turned and glared at me. I sucked in air sharply. Her eyes bored into mine like she was sending a silent message … _she was_. I 'saw' hands grabbing me. I reached for my hair as I 'saw' shadowy figures slashing at it with shears. I 'saw' a dank dark room. The frightening images slammed me back in my chair. Mother smirked as she turned to finish Cynthia's juice.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

_Chapter 9: In the Open_

One sultry Saturday afternoon Cynthia and I were on the Back Bay with our parents and other families on our block. It was a Fourth of July of celebration. We played in the water, built sandcastles and drank homemade lemonade. It was a great day. It was hot, but cloud cover kept the sun from biting too hard into our skin. In fact the day was glorious. River Birch trees reached for the bank and purple wisteria dotted the undergrowth with color. Laughter drifted with the tide. It was a day Norman Rockwell would have drawn had he been there.

And then the perfection was shattered.

I went rigid as I was consumed with the vision.

Without consent my body went into motion. I started running to a little outcropping of land that was covered with rocks. _If I could just get there in time _was all I could think. Initially I believed no one noticed my silent flight, there was simply too much going on. Only Cynthia saw me and followed.

I reached the rocks and scrambled to the top. I could see my father. I was relieved; I must have misunderstood what I had seen.

Realization was the cold sweat on my forehead.

My dad wasn't moving … he was floating face down. I toppled over the rocks to try and get to him. I splashed into the water, grabbing at his shirt and trying to turn him over. My hands were so little; I couldn't move him. But I kept trying. I could hear a strangled scream somewhere in the background as I clasped at him, trying to get him to shore. I kept thinking that whoever was screaming should just stop it and come help me.

As I gasped for breath, I realized I was the one screaming.

Angela's dad got to us first. He gently peeled me away as he grabbed my father, turning him face-up and dragging him to shore. I was shaking I was so cold and scared, standing waist-deep in the water. I didn't move. I just watched from where I was. Dr. Weber knelt beside my dad. He put his head to my father's chest and listened.

By this time, dozens of neighbors had arrived and clustered themselves around my father. I couldn't see anything. And I couldn't move. I could tell that Dr. Weber was working on my father. Then I saw my sister come running from the top of the rocks carrying the doctor's bag. Her dark hair flew out behind her as she muscled her way into the crowd. She was quickly lost to my eyes. I was so proud of her!

And I just stood there.

My mother grabbed blankets that were sitting on the beach nearby. The men made a makeshift stretcher and carried my father up the beach, and into the doctor's car, the one and only vehicle in our city. They headed for the hospital. I was left standing all alone, still in the water. The beach was eerily quiet and more unsettling than the frenzied voices and chatter that had surrounded my father.

Finally, I made myself move. My body hurt. It was hard at first, to even take a step. After I sloshed to shore I looked more closely at myself. There were bloodless slices in my feet, knees and even my elbows. I must have injured myself on the rocks in my hurry to get to my father. It hurt to walk.

When I crested the rocks, I saw Angela's mom hastily cleaning up and putting things away. She was surprised to see me.

"Well … Alice …" she stammered "I thought you would have gone with your family."

"They left me" was all I could muster.

I must have looked very forlorn. She hesitantly put her arm around me. Even in my haze, her reticence to come near me caught my attention. She'd always been so warm.

When she composed herself she said "that was very brave of you."

"What was brave?" I asked, perplexed.

"Well … uh … you really tried, didn't you?"

I just looked at her, completely unable to grasp her meaning.

She continued flustered, almost babbling and talking with her hands "Well, you were way over there, and then you started running, and it seemed so strange … and then you fell on the rocks and then we heard you screaming …"

I was apprehensive from her bravado and my breathing and heartbeat escalated as I waited for her to sort through her scattered thoughts. My eyes were wide with nervous anticipation.

She stopped talking, still waving her hands, willing the words to come to her. She briefly put her fingertips on her temples and closed her eyes. She dropped her arms to her side as she took a deep breath. And then she really looked at me, analyzing my countenance.

Pointedly she said, "how _did_ you know something was wrong?"

It was my turn to stammer.

"I don't know … maybe my father … screamed …?" I said it more like a question than a statement. It did not alleviate her confusion – or mine.

After a very long silence, as she scrutinized my eyes, she said "Well, let's get you home. You must be freezing."

I paused for a moment before I murmured, "thank you."

I helped her pack everything into the back of our buckboard, left behind as my Mother and Cynthia had accompanied Dr. Weber.

The silence was an uncomfortable third party on the way home.

My mom was emotionless when I arrived. She simply looked past me and turned away. I heard her mutter "Now everyone will know there's something wrong with her". I was bewildered by the statement. What had I done? Wordlessly I went up the stairs to clean up and change my clothes.

My father had had a mild heart attack and fallen into the water. He was in the hospital for several days, but was back to work, part time after two weeks. I could 'see' that he was going to be fine.

As I sat alone the evening of the accident, distraught and unnerved, I 'saw' the vision funneled to me from my mother. It was chilling. Hands were everywhere grabbing at me. I was unable to move my arms and legs like some binding fabric held me. I saw my beautiful hair in tangled piles on the floor. I saw circles under my eyes.

I drew my legs up and hugged them closely to my body. I rocked back and forth overtaken by hopelessness. The picture of me with the dark circles lingered. I tightly shut my eyes thinking that would block the vision. I rocked, alone and silent.

As I tried to make sense of the picture - my rocking slowed. I released my arms and legs. In a yoga-like position I allowed myself to really analyze the picture of the girl in my mind. Yes, I had deep almost purple circles under my eyes and my long hair was short and spiky, but I looked happy. In fact I was smiling. I was looking up at a beautiful blonde boy. We were 19 or 20 years old.

I had calmed down. I was no longer in knots so I stretched my legs out in front of me and opened my eyes to look out the window. The sun had come and gone. I stared at our yard and street for a long time, but I wasn't really seeing what was before me. The girl with the dark circles had me entranced.

Just then, the traditional fireworks started up, lighting our yard with their glow. It was impossible not to utter a whispered "oooh" as they exploded overhead. I craned my neck to see them high in the sky. With each explosion, I could see a momentary reflection of myself through my window. My skin was pallid and my eyes were black. I was fascinated by each hurried glimpse.

With each flash of light I studied the incarnation. I liked what I saw.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

_Chapter 10: Continuum_

Cynthia's piano playing was a bright spot.

When the clawing hands pulled me under, her music would rescue me. It would drag me up from the depths. And instead of hands pulling me down, I would see pale hands on piano keys, effortlessly playing a hauntingly sweet lullaby. Soon I would be dancing with my blonde partner and for a time I was swept away, happy, and light on my feet.

When I wasn't in despair over the clawing hands or euphoric over my ivory knight, I was avoiding mother. My senses became very attuned to the ruffle of her skirt or the smell of the soap she used on her hands. With time I became very stealthy and I could noiselessly retreat when I heard her coming. I was hyper-aware of her at all times; her position in the house was always in the recesses of my mind.

When she wanted me (which wasn't very often) I would appear before she could spit out my name. When it was time for dinner, I would suddenly be sitting at the table. It was unsettling to her. I did not enjoy this. I took no pleasure in it. But her distaste for me was tangible and I had to do whatever I could to protect myself. The nightmarish hands mauled more ferociously when mother was angry.

And so it went.

One day spilling into the next. A week, a month, a year. Everything was the same. It was like being at a carnival but watching from outside the gate. Everyone laughing and having fun while I can only watch, hungry; hungry for so much more …

Father still read about baseball as we sat uncomfortably on the porch, keeping up the facade. One summer Father read about a pitcher named Red Faber taking my Matty's place on a boat trip to Japan. Matty must have had a premonition about the trip as the ship was almost wrecked due to a powerful ocean storm. Red was sick the entire time due to seasickness, but he was able to pitch the finale in London.

He played so well that he was signed on with the White Sox even though the Giants really wanted him. But they had Matty, I didn't understand why they thought they'd need another pitcher. I wondered a lot about Matty, could he see things like me?

Time marched with little change as far as my mother was concerned. I was in an unhappy rut, trapped. Home life was unbearable. Mother was becoming openly hostile while father simply retreated. Like mother in the beginning, he was not mean – he was nothing. And that was much, much worse. I had become invisible.

School had started again, finally. It made things so much easier. I could be more myself at school. I was in the twelfth grade. The new teacher, Mr. Newton, was assigned to our grade. I wasn't sure how I felt about him. He was very stern and he dressed very formally every day. He wore either a grey or a black three-piece suit and his tie was always black. He wore round spectacles that perched on the tip of his nose. We all wondered how he kept them from falling off his face. When he addressed us, he would look at us over the glasses. Sometimes we weren't really sure if he was paying attention to us or not.

His teaching was very formal as well. Except when it came to history. Mr. Newton would become very animated when teaching us about history. He would talk with his hands, use pictures and object lessons, move back and forth in front of us, and even smile. We were all absolutely spellbound. Consequently history became everyone's favorite subject. He was continually drawing conclusions about life today with events of the past. He would tell us "you are the sum of your experiences". The history portion of our daily lessons always seemed to pass more quickly.

Even though I preferred being at school to being at home, the days dragged. It was back to basics again, reading, writing and arithmetic. This year all our reading would center on historical events.

Even though I was in the twelfth grade, I would often let my mind remember the school play and how much fun it had been. I would remember Miss Madeline and the lifeboat she had always been for me. I wished for a distraction of some sort.

One Monday morning as we sat in class, I got the familiar sensation that something was about to be announced; something that could break the spell of drab that had been cast on my life. Like a priest about to deliver a sermon, Mr. Newton announced an essay contest. He explained that those of us who chose to participate must write at least three pages on a specific topic. The topic was entitled: _Yesterday and Today_. Mr. Newton acknowledged it was a broad topic, but encouraged us to compare events in our personal family history with events in our own lives – today.

I threw myself into the contest. I spent my life on my schoolwork already. It was so much easier to endure nights and weekends when I could quietly keep my mind occupied. I would sit in my sterile-looking room, in my bay window, surrounded by my schoolbooks. Mother rarely came into my room. She would just holler for me from wherever she was. Even that was rare.

I carefully wrote my paper, laboring over every word. By the time I finished, I was quite pleased with what I'd done. I read it again and again, making tiny revisions and then rewriting it in flawless cursive. I was particularly proud of my closing line: "I do not have to become my mother."

I handed in the essay and forgot about it. There was always more homework.

I began to notice that the tension at home had ramped up. Mother would occasionally look almost wild and her hands would make fists. Things were so bad she even told Cynthia she had to stop playing the piano. This edict wounded Cynthia, even taking the color out of her cheeks and the wonder out of her eyes. Mother did it to punish me.

I could only quietly watch as Cynthia retreated into herself. The piano was her muse, her way of expressing herself. Mother would look at me with death in her eyes if I said anything. I had to shrink back and pretend at being a ghost. I knew mother was lashing out at me, I just didn't know why. The stress she had created put walls around my sight. I was blocked from every angle.

At first Cynthia just paced around the piano, looking at it longingly, her fingers moving along imaginary keys. Next she sat in a corner all balled up, rocking, hands still moving as if playing the notes. Mother finally relented when Cynthia wouldn't stop crying.

She watched from behind the staircase as Cynthia, her eyes swollen and red, gingerly sat on the piano bench staring at her best friend. She carefully placed her hands down and tried to play but her attempts were as off-key as her psyche. Mother watched with her hands to her mouth, silently crying as she watched her beloved and innocent daughter unable to coax any music from the ivory keys. For the longest time Cynthia sat with her hands in the air, shaking slightly. Finally she took a deep breath, set her hands down, and lost herself once more in the beauty of her music.

Mother made an audible sigh then turned and looked at me murderously.

I couldn't even blink as I saw poison spilling out of her. What had I done?

The next Monday I got my answer. I had won the essay contest. Mr. Newton explained that since we were all minors, they needed permission from the parents of the winners so they could travel to a competition being held in Alabama. I saw things very clearly then. When permission had been requested, Mother had read my paper. Strange I hadn't seen that coming.

I allowed myself to get caught up in the excitement of being selected. Along with four others I would be traveling to Mobile to present my paper along with winners from other schools in Mississippi and Alabama. I was ecstatic.

The trip was so fun! The best part was seeing Miss Madeline again. She was still taking care of her mother, she explained, but had accepted a teaching position at the local school. Her eyes were as loving and welcoming as they had ever been. She fingered her necklace when she saw me and hugged me. Feeling the love from her was a painful joy. I knew I would never get it from Mother. I held onto the embrace a little longer than perhaps I should have, but Miss Madeline didn't seem to mind.

And I came in fifth out of 43 students! I received a red ribbon with the word 'Fifth' written in gold lettering down the front and my full name in elegant calligraphy on the back. I also received a $10 dollar bill. That was so much money! I did not spend one dime. I would need it someday, I was sure of that.

The weekend was over far too quickly. As we neared Biloxi, my anxiety increased until it was hard to breathe normally. I was feeling lightheaded and I had a strange tingling in my hands. Father was waiting. He had his arms open to me. He hugged me and then we turned to walk home. But there was a tightness to his lips and his eyes looked tired. I dreaded seeing Mother.

As I stepped up the stairs, Cynthia bounded out the door and threw herself into me. Mother watched from inside the house, then turned toward the kitchen, not uttering one word. I didn't even bother to show her the ribbon.

"Play something for me, Cynthia." I asked her meaningfully.

We walked into the house arm-in-arm. I sat on the bench with my little sister and watched with awe as she caressed her music to life. Father had his hands on our shoulders, enjoying the music with us. I could sense Mother close by. Her thoughts were a tumble of reverent respect for Cynthia's gift, confusion about my father, and nothingness for me. I wondered how a person could survive such a cacophony of conflicting emotions. But I let it go. Instead, I let my body slowly sway to the music never letting myself forget the warmth of my father's hand on my shoulder.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	11. Chapter 11

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

Chapter 11: _Voices_

One crisp Saturday morning I quietly retreated outside to hide from my life. It was a little too cool sitting under the trees even sequestered by the Spanish moss, but a chilly autumn morning outside was better than the fabricated warmth inside.

I had learned how to conjure the visions of the pale ones, and I was engaged in a fantasy dance with my mythical blonde hero. My mind and body drifted with a piano serenade and I found a serene place within myself.

Something started tearing away at my trance. Voices. I was hearing voices. But these vocalizations were familiar, not anything from my fanciful daydreams. Dread heated my cheeks. I was instantly frightened and I had yet to understand what was being said. I stayed perfectly still, reluctantly letting go of my glorious delusion.

"I can't stand her in this house for even one more day!" Mother's voice stabbed.

"I don't know what you expect me to do" my father returned, more beaten down than angry.

"I want her gone. She's sneaky, she's disrespectful … she's going to ruin Cynthia, you know she will!"

Mother's angry voice was like a vice on my heart, squeezing tears from my eyes. I was finding it difficult to breathe as I listened to the molten venom she was spewing. She despised me. I guess I just hadn't let myself see the absolute hatred. The clawing hands were at me again, this time accompanied by a creepy mewling hum that was getting louder and louder. It was hard to tell which was worse, the mewling or Mother.

"I won't be a part of this, I won't. It's not like she's a witch or anything. She saved my life! I would have drowned if she had not acted. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

My father's voice was escalating. I realized that he was defending me. The feel of his hand on my shoulder returned once more. Without rustling even one branch, I rolled onto my side to watch the exchange. Mother looked crazy to me, stamping her feet and practically yelling at my father. I had never heard her speak to him in such a manner. I was appalled.

Mother's voice lowered, and she sounded even more sinister.

"I'll take Cynthia. I'll do it. I'll take her where you will never find us."

She paused. She'd hit her mark. And she knew it.

They stared at each other for a long while. Father knew she would keep her promise. Mother knew she'd gone too far with her hasty ultimatum.

With sagging shoulders he started to walk away, then he turned and said, "you make the arrangements then. I won't stop you, but I won't help you either. I love BOTH my daughters."

His voice was thin but authoritative. Mother had won the battle but lost the war. She'd gotten her way, but she knew she'd just lost him in the process. She stood there, hurt and shock disfiguring her features. She put both hands to her face and started to sob as she crumpled to the grass.

I listened to mother cry. I sat there under the trees for what felt like a very long time as she grappled with her life through tears. I suppose I should have felt compassion. I didn't. Maybe I should have hated her back. I didn't. Actually, I didn't know what I was feeling; I was focusing more on staying hidden. If she saw me she'd know I'd been listening; and she might actually fracture with rage. I was paralyzed with fear at the thought of it.

She finally stood up. She wiped the tears away. She straightened her skirt and fussed with her hair. She squared her shoulders and set her jaw. I saw her resolve. She was going to take solace in the thought that I would be gone. I saw her mind for a moment, her barriers broken down.

She remembered the polka in the hallway and the way she and father had looked at each other. She loved his touch and the way his eyes crinkled around the edges when he smiled at her. They had a silent way of communicating that sent a thrill up her spine. I saw all this through her eyes. As I continued to see her mind, I saw Father walking away. She gasped as she realized what it meant. She had lost him. Would they become strangers to each other now?

Then I saw the rage. She balled up her fists and pursed her lips. I didn't need second sight to know what it meant. She was blaming me. All this was my fault. I knew I was no longer safe.

Mother finally went into the house. When I heard the door shut behind her, I collapsed in my hiding spot. I had essentially been holding my breath, so I lay there gulping in great lumps of air.

What was I going to do?

I was truly panicked.

The clawing hands were so vivid. Mother had given the vision to me; she must be familiar with the hands and the clawing. I had to believe it was within her power to send me to the cold dark place. I knew I would die there. I would become just a shell and my mind would turn to mush. I saw myself lying on a dirty cot with lifeless eyes – victim of an emotional decapitation.

I couldn't let it happen. Leaving was my only option.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

Chapter 12: _Villain_

The planning began.

I still had my essay winnings and I had received some money when I graduated from high school. I knew I would need it.

What would I take with me? How would I remember the exact sound of Cynthia's inspired piano playing? What could I take with me to remember my father?

I decided to take a sheet of Cynthia's music. Maybe someday I would meet someone who could play the piano; I would ask if they could play it for me. I also decided to take one of Father's books from his expansive library. This would be the scariest part of my departure. I would need to be very quiet as I tiptoed into the luxurious study. It wouldn't even matter what book it was, just knowing it was his would be enough.

I had a large bag that I used when we went to the Back Bay. I would pack my few belongings into that bag. I didn't have very many clothes so it shouldn't be too heavy. As I plotted my exit, I realized I didn't have many possessions. Why was that I wondered? Shouldn't a life have accumulated proof of existence by the age of 19? I looked at my Spartan room fully comprehending how barren it was. It was a startling comparison to my life. A shockwave of emotions dropped me to my knees.

I knew I had to gain control of myself. I had learned in the past few years that I was less able to receive or make sense of the visions when I was upset or angry. I would lose Mother's position in our house if I remained this emotional. I sat down, cross-legged and made myself relax.

I thought of my eyes, my shoulders, my hands and then my legs. I took in slow, deep cleansing breaths. It worked. I allowed myself to stay in the trance. I saw that I would be successful. I would be able to get out of the house unnoticed. I was also struck with a solution. I would go to Mobile. I would try to find Miss Madeline. Even if I could not stay with her, I was quite certain she would help me.

Seeing her in my mind's eye brought me peace. As I considered my silent retreat, shards of light created a hollow pathway for me to follow. My alabaster dance partner waited at the end of the tunnel. I could see myself coming out of the darkness and finding him. He would know me, I just knew it.

That night I sat at the dinner table careful not to give myself away. We sat at a rectangular shaped table. Cynthia and Father were to my sides and I was across from Mother. I asked if Cynthia could play after dinner. Father loved the idea. As unobtrusively as possible, I moved my chair slightly closer to my Father, just one last time. I loved him so much. I would never forget how he had defended me this morning. I would love him always. I simply ignored Mother. It was what she wanted anyway.

Mother had prepared chicken pot pie, cooked carrots, cornbread and apple pie for dessert. Mother was a good cook … I would miss that I supposed. I considered the cornbread. It would travel well. We also had apples and jerky. I would wrap some up, as I had no idea when I could eat again. I tried to remain impassive as I sized-up my surroundings, committing them to memory.

I may have been slaughtered emotionally in these walls, but there were also many good times. I fought tears as I vowed to forget the bad and fill my memory only with the goodness. I momentarily closed my eyes to drink in the love that formerly existed at this very table. For too long I allowed my eyes to remain shut. A cooling breeze came in through the windows scattering the angst, the cruelness and the dark silence. I even smiled as the breeze ruffled my hair.

My pleasant parole was lifted by the sound of breaking glass.

I opened my eyes, frightened. Cynthia was eating her dinner, completely unaware of the sudden mutiny, Mother acting as Captain. Father had his hand on mother's wrist, her skin white with his pressure. She was glaring at me, her blouse was spattered with milk and her hand was bleeding. Each drop of blood stained the tablecloth, the stark red an incredible interruption of the serenity of white. The silence of each drop of blood was accompanied by a soft pitter-patter drifting from the other side of the table.

We each turned with the tiniest of motions to look at Cynthia. Her fingers were drumming the table playing a tune only she could hear. Her eyes were closed as she perfected her ghostly lyrical measure, providing the silent score to the drama unfolding in front of her. For the briefest of moments, Mother saw herself as I do, as Cynthia may … the villain.

Any fear I may have had about leaving was eclipsed. I was no longer welcome.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	13. Chapter 13

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

Chapter 13: _Escape_

I wasn't asleep. I was absently counting with each tick of the clock. The calming influence of Cynthia's piano temporarily suspended the stifling emotional fog that had laid itself down on our dinner table. Mother excused herself and never returned. I think she was appalled by her own behavior, but she was a victim of her own avalanche; only she could save herself now. But she'd have to want to.

My eyes were sore. Mother's exquisite hatred had drained all the tears from my eyes. It was now or never. I quietly got out of bed. I was fully clothed. The soft breeze that was present at dinner had turned into an antagonistic wind, causing the trees to scrape the windows of our home, masking my escape. I made my bed. As I surveyed my work with the eye of an Army captain I wondered why I bothered. What difference did it make really? It made a difference to me. I would leave things spotless; no residual presence.

I closed the door to my bedroom and walked past Cynthia's room. I peeked in, one last time. She was sleeping effortlessly. Life would be better for her with me gone. The empty well of tears had filled up again and slid down my cheeks as I lingered. I hoped she would remember me. I hoped I would not be erased.

I was petrified as I walked past Mother and Father's bedroom. I dared not linger. I could hear the nasal snoring of my Father. Was it possible to commit a sound to memory? Many nights his snoring had kept me awake. I wondered now if I'd be able to sleep without it.

I went down the wooden staircase, careful to avoid the squeaky portions. When I was safely down the stairs I allowed myself to breathe again. I went into the kitchen. Dinner was still on the table, going to waste. I had never known Mother to leave the kitchen anything but spotless before going to bed. I suspected she was waging her own internal battle and a clean kitchen did not have a starring role.

I took my dinner napkin and wrapped up all the remaining cornbread and put it into my bag. I grabbed some apples and jerky as I had planned. I was hoping to have at least enough for a day or two. I checked the pantry to see if there was anything else that was portable. I looked at all the meticulously canned fruits and vegetables from the harvest. My mother's handiwork, carefully lined up and on display.

I was unprepared for my response. I actually cried out loud, the wind acting as my lookout; my partner in escape. I had tried to make myself believe that I did not love Mother, but I did. I did love her. And I wanted to be loved in return. I stood there, seeing the loving way Mother had prepared each bottle and wondered why she couldn't have loved me too. It was one more wound that would accompany me through life.

I pulled myself away from the pantry and went to Father's study. I snuck in and without use of a light, grabbed any book from the shelf and shoved it in my bag. Before I left the room I stood by Father's desk, remembering watching him work or reading the newspaper. I breathed in the smell of the musty books, and the richness of the mahogany and leather. Spontaneously I rummaged in my bag. I pulled out my red ribbon with my name in calligraphy and placed it in the top drawer of Father's desk. I had taken something of his; I would leave something of me behind for him.

I closed the door soundlessly and crept to the living room. I lifted the lid of the piano seat and grabbed a piece of sheet music. It was the Debussy Cynthia had played earlier. Perfect.

I was done. I could leave now. I opened the front door, stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind me. I stood there for a few minutes allowing myself to remember all the nights spent here, drinking lemonade, listening to Father read the paper, and hearing the piano in the background. I wished I could bottle those feelings like Mother had bottled peaches and cherries. I backed up noiselessly and disappeared into the shadows of the night.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

Chapter 14: _Travel_

I thought I'd feel triumphant.

Instead I was frightened.

I became hyper-aware of all sounds, dizzily attempting to identify them: the whinny of a horse, the hoot of an owl, or the circulation of my own blood.

Even my former ally, the wind, had turned on me. It swirled and hushed my name as it flirted all around me, sending electric shocks of fear up and down my spine; its fickle tendrils grazing my neck. I clutched my meager belongings to my chest as I hurried down the street. The darkness was playing tricks on my vision. I was seeing mystery and danger in every corner. I couldn't wait to get to the train station.

Calling it a train station was really a misnomer. Yes, trains stopped there, but it was mostly just to unload supplies. Father referred to the train route through Biloxi as a 'milk run'. They had a few small compartments for travelers and I was imagining myself sitting in one this very moment.

I moved as quietly as possible, barely letting my feet touch the ground. It wasn't far, but the anxiety was building. Each step hastened a scream that seemed to be building in the back of my throat. If I could just make it to the train station and pay for my ticket, I would be ok, right?

I hurried, walking right down the middle of our main street. I passed our general store, a barber shop, a diner called Biloxi Bill's, and Dr. Weber's office. There were no lights, no sounds, just the wind teasing the ruffles of my skirt. The train station was in the distance, and I could see a faint light. It was a much-needed glimmer of hope.

I stopped as I got to the stairs that led up to the station, peering around the staircase, wondering what was ahead. I was so scared that I couldn't 'see' anything. I knew I had to calm myself down; big emotions clogged my ability to foresee. I stepped back in the shadows and took a deep breath; I put my bag down and closed my eyes. I let my mind hear Cynthia playing the piano. As I relaxed, my blonde dancer twirled into my vision, extended his hand and asked for a waltz. I willingly obliged.

I had found my center. After I walked up the stairs, I would be able to buy a ticket to Mobile and I would only have to wait until 12:05 a.m., just 30 more minutes.

I purchased my ticket. The man behind the counter was appraising me, clearly wondering why a young woman was alone in the middle of the night, buying a train ticket. But grizzled years of working a train station usurped his curiosity. I asked how long it would be once I was on the train. He estimated that with two more stops, the train would arrive in Mobile at around 7:00 a.m.

I sat on the lone bench outside the station, waiting impatiently for the train. I put my bag in between my feet while I waited. I wanted to dance some more, so I closed my eyes and searched my mind for his face. I found him. But his countenance was foggy … no … no! The hands! I clutched at my throat and held my breath.

I had believed that if I successfully left my parents home, the clawing hands would be gone forever.

I was afraid to close my eyes again. As my breathing returned to normal I made myself search my mind. Even though it scared me, there was something different about these hands. My nightmarish memories of the hands had never included my knight. He had never co-mingled with the hands. What did that mean? I didn't understand it; I only knew that I wasn't as afraid of the hands anymore.

I sat on that wooden bench, avoiding splinters and wondering about my future. I was tied up in knots - in a good way. Even with my eyes open I could see the hands, there was something non-threatening but urgent about them, these were not the same hands I had been seeing for so long. I squinted my eyes, trying to figure out the difference and nearly fell off the bench at the sound of the train whistle.

I was on my feet before I knew it, panting and backing away from the sound, disoriented. Experienced men jumped off the cars, walking beside the train as it finally slowed to a stop, eager to get their work done. I watched in quiet awe as the burly men literally threw boxes and boxes from one set of arms to the next. They had the train unloaded and reloaded within an hour.

The ancient man who had sold me my ticket hollered "all aboard!" The noise of it made me jump and motored me to the train. He looked at a shiny gold pocket-watch as he absently motioned me toward the train. I stepped off the stair taking in the massive machine and wondering which car was for human cargo. Another old man stepped onto the steps of the car motioning me toward him. I looked at him and then turned to look at the ticket man, back and forth. They had to be twins, at the very least brothers. It was almost unnerving.

I reached to grip the handrail and heave myself and my bag on board. He motioned at some seats inside the car. He never said one word. I walked in and sat down on the closest bench. I was the only one in the cramped space. Everything was so unfamiliar. My heart beat in my head as I waited for the train to start up and take me away.

I looked around the car. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the color scheme. Some of the seats were red, some were blue and there was one lone dirty yellow seat right across from me; in fact, dirty seemed to be the theme for the space. I held my bag close to me, feeling the security as if it were a child's blanket.

Finally the train chug-chugged itself to life. Once it found its rhythm I was able to relax. I never put my bag down, but my knuckles were no longer white with the tightness of my grip. I closed my eyes again, trying to unknot my stomach as I settled down for a long ride. I was very curious about the subtle differences in this new vision. I was completely awake as my eyes roamed my eyelids searching for the suddenly unfamiliar – yet familiar picture of my probable future.

As I critically eyed each nuance and difference, I realized that it was the aftermath of the hands that was the most changed. In the original dream, the dark cold room - definitely the result of the clawing hands - was completely oppressive. The feel of the room was like a cold fog dragging me down into a thick liquid swallowing me and stealing my sparkle and then my breath. I would 'wake' from the vision feeling drained and hopeless.

In this new dream, the hands were almost helpful. They carried me to a place so brightly lit it was almost unnatural. There is no sound at all, no awful mewling building to a numb and cold existence. I can feel a biting pain, but even though it's excruciating there's a warmth and friendliness to it. Maybe I feel that way, because my porcelain prince is always a hazy silhouette watching over me, or maybe … maybe I hadn't changed my destiny at all.

I was not asleep, but it would be easy to assume I was. The long train ride was over. I had spent the entire trip analyzing what I was seeing, not even noticing stops or accelerations. When the train man bumped my elbow I quickly opened my eyes to look at him.

"We're here Missy. We made good time. Is someone meeting you?" He said looking away yawning.

I looked out the window of the car. It was still dark.

"What time is it?"

The train man pulled out his identical shiny gold pocket-watch, scrutinizing it closely as if he was unable to read the hands on the face.

"5:19. Is someone here to meet you?"

I didn't answer. No one was here to meet me. No one knew I was here. No one.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	15. Chapter 15

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

Chapter 15: _Water_

Hesitantly I stood and gathered myself as I followed the train man off the passenger car. It was still dark outside and the air was much cooler than Biloxi, probably because I'd been in the stiflingly small passenger car for so long.

I walked to the train station. I expected to see another antique man behind the counter with another gold pocket-watch. I was quite surprised when it was a lady. She was very round, shaped like a blueberry with hands and feet. She had a cautious demeanor about her, with pasty skin and graying frazzled hair.

"Can I help you, honey?" She croaked, as she looked me up and down.

It took me a moment to answer. "I'm headed to Mobile. How far is it from here?" I said this more timidly than I had planned.

The lady considered me for a long while and it felt as though her eyes missed nothing. She took me in, reading fear in my reluctance to answer her question. She was right, I was afraid.

"Well …" she was chewing something black that had stained her teeth and puckered lips. She hovered over her answer. "Follow the banks of the river to Canal Street. That'll take you right to it."

She made a guttural slurping sound and turned and spit a wad of black goo into a battered Hill's Brother's Coffee tin sitting on the floor. I had never seen or heard anything like that in my life. And from a woman! My puritanical mother would have been repelled. I know I was. I turned and walked out of the station, still clutching my bag. My stomach was heaving.

She hollered after me "watch out for horses, there's a lot of action out there this early in the morning!" As I hurried away I could hear her laughing and slapping the counter, somehow proud her actions had me flustered.

The fresh air worked. I tried to push the memory of the coffee tin out of my head; it was hard to let the image go. I took in great breaths of air as I stopped to look at the Mobile River. I wondered why they would put train tracks so close to the water's edge. What if there was a hurricane. I remembered learning about a terrible hurricane in Galveston. Couldn't something like that happen here too?

I no longer felt nauseous now that I was out of that tiny room with that overbearing woman. But I was hungry. I picked a grassy spot behind a tree that was mostly hidden from the street and sat down. My tired was beginning to sink in. Adrenaline had pumped me through the two train station ordeals, but now it had drained away. I pulled an apple and the cornbread and jerky out of my bag. I ate slowly, consciously chewing each bite, savoring the flavor and all the memories that came with it. I was thirsty but I had nothing to drink. I pushed that thought aside. I wrapped up the rest of the food and replaced it in my bag.

In the receding moonlight, I could see the bank of the river was muddy with a skim of clear water across the top. I threw a stone into the water and watched it settle into the bank, disappearing from view. I found another rock and threw it in the same place. The mud swallowed it with a single slurp. I looked up at the big water. It was moving steadily and the sounds of it were very relaxing. I sighed. I was really missing Cynthia and even the uncomfortable tension in my childhood home. I knew I could never return.

My mind was a complete jumble. What was I going to do now? I didn't even know where Miss Madeline lived. But I did know where her school was. That was where the essay contest had been held. I had no choice but to go there. I was beginning to feel afraid again and my exhausted eyes were going to close no matter what I did. I shivered from the cold of the grass and drew my legs and bag up against my chest as I gave into my heavy lids. Maybe my handsome prince would lull me to sleep.

A clippety-cloppety added a background drumline to the music fueling our dreamy dance steps. At first it was pleasant, blending right in with the beat in my head. But soon it was too loud and accompanied by higher pitched and unpleasant sounds. Stars were just beginning to fade in the morning sky. I stood up in a panic, unsure of my exact location or my footing. I started to fall backwards, waving my arms, searching for balance in the empty air. The sound was thundering inside me now. My balance was finally lost and I fell onto the gravel of the road. I hit hard and my head cracked against the rocks. I rose up on my elbows, pain swirling in yellows and reds in front of my eyes.

I could hear men's voices urgently yelling instructions I could not decipher in my haze. Before I could turn my head, I was pummeled under the hooves of many horses, whinnying skittishly as they hammered each step. I was finally catapulted through the air and I landed on my back in the marshy banks of the Mobile River.

I couldn't move. The colored streaks of pain before my eyes were now popping with blues and whites as I gasped for air. It felt like something heavy was on my chest and my legs contorted painfully. My head was splitting. I anxiously tried to flap my arms, to free myself from the weight that was stealing my air.

I could hear muffled voices and I tried to open my eyes. The current was pulling me under and I was sinking, soon to join the rocks I'd casually thrown in earlier. I could see wavy bits of early morning sunlight and blue sky each time my eyes fluttered open. I was still flapping my arms, but was trapped in a marshy hole of mud and water. My frenzied motions were boring me deeper into the mud. When I opened my eyes trying to focus through the water, I could see hands grabbing me and pulling at me. I screamed, swallowing in lakes of water. My eyes closed and my arms stopped their panicked flailing.

The hands.

Of course, the hands.

As my mind drifted placidly into the depths of the Mobile River, my last slice of consciousness held onto the sky-blue eyes of my blonde hero.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	16. Chapter 16

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

Chapter 16: _Broken_

_"Grab her!" A big man with huge forearms screamed as he landed in the water, joining two men already reaching for the young woman._

_"We're trying – it's like she's stuck!" A younger man hollered back._

_A man with only one arm was kneeling in the water up to his neck, trying to release her from the death-grasp of the sticky mud. He took a deep breath and immersed himself in the water in an effort to find a better angle._

_After several frantic moments, he popped up out of the water, sputtering and gasping for breath. "She's free", he coughed "she's free! Pull!"_

It felt like I was floating, almost watching the men scramble to pull someone else out of the murk. When they got me on dry ground, the man with one arm started pumping on my chest, trying to jump-start my heart. The man with the big forearms easily lifted him out of the way and took his place, using both his hands in an attempt to force life back into my body.

The fourth man, who was wearing a red and black flannel shirt softly said "get her to a sitting position, see if you can push that water out of her lungs."

The big man instantly complied. It was obvious the man in red and black was a boss of sorts. They sat me up. My head lolled to one side and my arms hung limp. My left leg was bent in the wrong direction. He slapped my back, hard, spilling the water out of me. Gently he laid me back down.

The younger man was on his knees by this time. He moved my wet hair that was plastered across my nose and eyes and put his ear to my mouth.

"I don't know boss" his voice was thin and cracking "I don't know if she's breathing."

He leaned in closer, holding his pointer-finger up in a gesture of silence.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute … I think I hear something!"

"Get her in the back! Let's take her to the Doc. He'll know what to do." The boss man spoke with authority and the others were in motion in no time at all.

The big man swooped me up like I was a football. The one armed man ran to the buckboard to make space for me. The young man grabbed my bag and threw it in the back. They each easily hopped into the buckboard and stormed off to the Doc's.

I was aware of what was going on in a hazy-far-off-way, but I could not move. And everything hurt. My breathing was shallow because I couldn't seem to inflate my lungs; each teeny tiny breath was exquisitely painful. It was also a bumpy road; I felt each rock and rut as the wagon charged on.

I could hear the men talking. The young man was completely distraught, speed- talking as he explained what had happened. The boss man put a beefy hand on his shoulder and told him it could have happened to anyone. The boy continued talking, spilling out words like water had spilled from my lungs. He had been the one driving the team when they lost control. A lady named Daisy had hollered at them as they drove by the train station. As I listened, I wondered if the spitting woman was named Daisy, the name seemed so incongruent with the gruff and rotund woman I had met that morning. Daisy had spooked the horses and the young man had lost control of the reigns. He explained that he yelled to get my attention, but I had been too disoriented and off balance.

I felt sorry for him.

Their voices sounded so far away, it was beginning to be hard to hear what they were saying. The pain was starting to dissipate. My blonde hero had glazed my eyes with his smile. I didn't hurt anymore. I could just hear a sweet Debussy in my mind as I tried to stand and dance with him. I reached up to take his hand but our fingers never touched. I slipped away, hand still eagerly outstretched, reaching for nothing but air.

"_Boss, boss! I think she's quit breathing!" The one-armed man was on his knees looking at a young girl he did not recognize. "Are we almost there? You must go faster!"_

_The boss man skillfully turned and pulled on the reins, nudging the horses to go faster than they had ever gone before. He yelled "Hey-yah!" followed by a high-pitched whistle. The horses, sensing the urgency, picked up their hooves even faster as they raced to get the young girl to the doctor's office._

"_Place her on the table" a soft-spoken man ordered the four men._

_As gently as four men who worked hard for a living could, they laid the girl on the shiny silver table that was covered only with a long white cloth._

"_Back away please."_

_The men each took one long step back, refusing to leave the room. The young man pulled off his New York Giant's baseball cap, wringing it in his hands. They each looked at the young girl, guessing at her age and wondering who she was._

_Dr. Cullen put his stethoscope to her chest and listened intently. He could hear a faint thu-thump of her heart. He listened to her lungs and heard wheezing and gurgling. He expertly felt her neck, arms and legs, noting many breaks. He moved her head to the side and poked through a bloody mat of hair, looking for the source of the injury._

_The men's unspoken questions were ringing loud in the room as they waited to hear if the young woman was alive._

_The handsome young doctor looked at the men. "She is alive and barely breathing. I'm sure she has several broken ribs and a punctured lung as I can hear gurgling in her chest. In addition to numerous lacerations and contusions, she has breaks in her right radius and ulna as well as the femur, fibula and tibia". The doctor pointed to his own arm and leg as he described the breaks. "I'm also certain she has a severe concussion."_

_Dr. Cullen looked at the young woman, sizing up her wounds and trying to determine his next course of action._

"_Do any of you know this young woman?"_

_All four men shrugged their shoulders. The one-armed man was clutching her bag. Dr. Cullen pointed to it. "Is that hers?"_

"_We think so," the one-armed man answered._

"_I think we should look through it for any identification."_

_The one-armed man dropped the bag to the floor and knelt to look through it. The young man joined him as he wiped tears from his eyes. They took everything out, shaking each item of clothing searching for a name or any clue as to the identity of the young woman so near to death. There was only a sheet of music and a book._

_The young man slumped against the wall, holding the book in his hands. He opened it. There was an inscription in the book that said 'from your wife, I'll always love you.' He read the note aloud._

"_That doesn't help us, does it." Dr. Cullen said quietly._

_There was a clumsy silence as the older men considered the young man, knowing the emotions with which he was grappling. The boy felt he was responsible. He drew his legs up and hugged them to him. He buried his face into his knees and cried out loud._

_At that moment the girl's chest heaved and a gurgling sound issued from her mouth. Her right hand spasmed slightly almost as if she were reaching for someone. The gurgling stopped._

_Dr. Cullen placed his hand on the shoulder of the boss man and whispered that she was gone. The men huddled around the boy still sitting on the ground, his shoulders shaking with his unconcealed sobs._

"_Take him home, I'll finish here."_

_The big man gently put his hand under the boy's armpit and raised him to the ground. They led him out the door._

"_Let us know if there's anything … let us know …" The big man stifled a catch in his throat as he implored the doctor with a grieved stare._

_Dr. Cullen closed the door to the examination room and whispered to his nurse. She reached for a vial from a locked cabinet and handed it to the boss man._

"_Have him take this if he has a hard time sleeping."_

"_Thanks Doc" the man said thickly "it wasn't his fault … she came up from behind a tree … the horses were spooked …it wasn't this boy's fault."_

_Dr. Cullen looked into the man's eyes, kind eyes that were begging for the boy's vindication._

"_It wasn't anyone's fault, no one is to blame here."_

_The big man looked at the doctor with gratitude. The men towed the boy outside and shut the door behind them._

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	17. Chapter 17

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

Chapter 17: _Damages_

Dr. Cullen looked out his window and watched the men dejectedly throw themselves into the wagon. The young boy was bereft and it looked like he would pass out. Dr. Cullen felt for the boy, but he knew he couldn't help him.

He could, however, help the girl. He was thinking fast. He needed to relieve his nurse so he could work privately.

"Nurse Hale?" Dr. Cullen inquired professionally.

As she fumbled for an answer, Dr. Cullen regarded the woman. She was wearing a standard nurse uniform, a white utilitarian formless dress, white stockings, and sturdy unattractive white shoes.

"Yes Doctor." She finally stammered.

"Do you know any of those men?"

"I know them all, doctor. In fact I went to school with the man with one arm. His name is Bull … well, actually his name is Theodore, but he lost his arm in a rodeo – he was skewered by the horns of a bull. Somehow it just became his nickname."

Dr. Cullen listened patiently.

"What about the young man, do you know him?"

"I have seen him, I don't really know anything about him though. He and his mom moved back from New York to live with her mother. I don't know where the father is. In fact," she leaned in closer " there's gossip going 'round saying …"

Dr. Cullen put up his hand to cut her off. He wasn't at all interested in town gossip. He knew all too well how damaging it could be. He smiled at the older woman. She got that giddy look in her eyes the way all women seemed to when Dr. Cullen was in the room.

"What is the boy's name?" He looked at her inquisitively aware of her elevated breathing and heart rate as she looked at him.

"Um …" her mind was not thinking straight "um, his name is Dalton."

She looked at him longingly. She knew it was silly to look at him like that or to even feel this way, she was married for heavens sake - happily, had been for 17 years. But there was something magical about his countenance and the way he moved. She told everyone she worked for Dr. Cullen relishing in the open-mouthed jealousy from the women she told. He seemed to have the same affect on women of all ages.

"Do you know where they live?"

"Yes Doctor."

"Could you please call on the boy's family? Please explain what has happened. Make sure his mother knows that Dalton was not responsible, that it was an accident. Talk to her about the sleeping pills and explain the dosage. Would you do that for me – for the boy?"

She wished he would call her Virginia instead of Nurse Hale. Nurse Hale was so formal. She really just wanted to watch his mouth curl around her name. She was lost in his eyes again.

"Nurse Hale?"

She shook her head and straightened some papers on her desk nervously.

"Yes, yes, of course, Dr. Cullen. Shall I go right now?"

"Yes please. I'm very worried about that boy. We need to help him and his mother realize it was an accident that could have happened to anyone. We must do what we can to keep this from damaging him or his future."

"I'll go now."

"Thank you Nurse. I will take care of the arrangements for this girl. I will see that she receives a proper burial."

Nurse Hale stood up and straightened her white nurses' uniform. She thought about Dr. Cullen and what a nice man he was. It was really sweet of him to see that this young girl was properly interred. She put her papers away, locked the medicine cabinet, and opened the door to leave. She turned one last time to look at the beautiful Dr. Carlisle Cullen before she closed the door behind her.

Dr. Cullen knew he was racing the clock. He could still hear the girl's faint heartbeat. He doubted another physician could hear it even with a stethoscope, but he could clearly hear it without use of equipment.

He knew he couldn't change this girl without first discussing it with his family. He raced home, not even a blur to anyone astute enough to have noticed. When he arrived, he talked it over with his wife Esme and his adopted son Edward. He quickly described the circumstances of the accident and her broken body, irreparable with today's medicine.

They all agreed it should be done. Edward accompanied his father as two blurs streaking toward the doctor's office. They stood at the metal table, looking at the waterlogged and broken girl.

Edward looked at his father.

"No one knows her?"

"No one, and there is absolutely no identifying information in her bag."

Dr. Cullen pointed at the non-descript bag and its contents still sitting in a pile on the floor. Edward quickly went through the things again, also lingering on the book. He leafed through the pages and stopped on the same passage Dalton had read earlier. He laid it to rest with her other things.

"She'll die soon, won't she." Edward knew the answer already.

"Yes, she'll die very soon."

Edward turned and looked at his father. He knew he would never make such a decision lightly. He knew he would never damn a soul to becoming an eternal nocturnal nomad if he thought there was another way. Edward nodded his head once.

Dr. Cullen took in a deep breath and looked at the pummeled young woman one last time. He picked up her arm and rolled up her sleeve. He put his mouth to the wet skin of her wrist and bit.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	18. Chapter 18

What if Alice had never been in an asylum …

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

Chapter 18: _Decision_

It had been three weeks.

His little girl had been gone for three weeks.

He absently felt in the breast-pocket of his suitcoat. Ever since he had found the red fifth place ribbon in the top drawer of his desk he had carried it with him. He sat in his study now, alone. The door was open so he could hear Cynthia playing. Her music had taken on a dark tenor since Alice had disappeared.

Disappeared. That is exactly what she had done. Even her room looked like it had been vacant for years. He had found himself standing there a lot in the last weeks. He looked around, seeing the bare walls, the absence of pictures, and the crushing void where a beautiful and vibrant daughter had once been.

He swiveled around in his chair, eyeing the book-sized gap in one of the bookcases. Which book had it been? He knew that Alice had taken a book when she left the ribbon. He was glad she had. But he kept wondering which book it was and why she had selected it. He supposed he'd never know.

He stopped moving in his chair and looked through the slice of space left by the partially closed door. In addition to the morose tune Cynthia was playing, he could hear a pleasant humming. His wife was busily fixing dinner in their kitchen. He could smell the roast as it simmered with carrots, potatoes and onions. He could visualize the fresh loaves of wheat bread on their sides, cooling. He imagined the taste of the lemon meringue pie he knew she had prepared earlier in the day.

This woman who was preparing the meal was the woman he had met and fallen in love with over 20 years ago. In the last few weeks, he had rediscovered the girl with the dance in her step and the song in her heart. The girl who had stolen his heart. He hadn't realized that she had been missing. It had snuck up on him.

He was tortured. He missed Alice. He missed her quiet presence. He missed her mischievous smile. He missed the way she loved her sister. He looked through the door again. He could see Cynthia as she sat at the piano, pounding out her funeral dirge. She was different now too. Would she find herself again? Were Cynthia and Alice so synergistically connected that one could not survive without the other?

He was without hope. He knew Alice left of her own accord, not because she wanted too, but because she knew what the woman cooking dinner had planned. He knew that his wife had run her off. At the same time, he knew that the wife he loved was back now. And he was glad she was back, he had missed her. But there was massive guilt mingled in there too. Why couldn't he have both? Why couldn't the woman he had married find the joy in parenting two daughters instead of just one? He hated her for it, but loved the woman humming in the kitchen fiercely.

His emotions were teetering on a vast precipice.

Dinner was delicious. The meat melted in his mouth and the hearty whole wheat bread was delicious slathered in gravy. He barely saved enough room for pie. He sat contentedly on the porch after dinner. It was unusually warm for October, an Indian summer perhaps. The lazy sun had made its nightly escape as a welcome breeze rustled the Spanish moss in the trees. Absently he fanned himself with the newspaper. Cynthia was sitting next to him, quiet, like always. He was waiting for the woman in the kitchen to finish her clean up, so he could read the newspaper aloud.

It was a ritual they had begun years before. In the before time as he'd come to think of it. He fondly remembered two little girls – one dancing while the other one played. They would giggle and jabber like two little girls should. All was well in the Brandon household. He was a man who had it all. A beautiful wife who made his heart skip a beat and two darling daughters, the stereotypical apples of his eye. It was a good life.

Seeing the twirling daughter of his memory sashayed his thinking to a polka with his wife so many years ago. They weren't very good. But it hadn't mattered. They were two people in love, as much as the day they had married. He thought of how his wife looked that night. Her cheeks were flushed and she was a little winded. But she was smiling and they both hoped it would never end.

That was the night that changed everything. The night they realized their daughter was … different. He had been bewildered by his daughter's ability, but his wife became another soul on that night. She had turned her back on their oldest.

At first it had been subtle; you'd have to want to see how her behavior had changed. Little things like squeezing orange juice for Cynthia but not for Alice. Making a beautiful, stunning dress for Cynthia for the school play and using the leftover material for Alice. As time trundled on she became more and more obvious at her outright dislike for Alice.

He winced as he thought of his dark-haired daughter. His wife had Alice standing on a stool, fitting the material to her, barking commands and belittling her. And Alice had stood there like a statue. She just took it, what choice had she had. She just stood there, fear and sadness in her eyes, trying to anticipate whatever her mother might request. He muffled a catch in his throat.

He felt a small hand on his cheek.

"What is it daddy?"

Cynthia was looking up at her father, a question in her eyes.

He grasped for an answer. "My throat is sore honey." It was the first thing he thought to say.

She accepted his answer with childlike innocence. He smiled at his little girl, his eyes moist with his love and loss.

"I miss Alice, daddy. Is she ever coming home?"

He struggled to find an answer. "I don't think so. And I miss her too."

His throat caught again.

They sat there in silence, a quiet understanding permeating the air around them.

Mother stepped out onto the porch carrying a tray with three glasses of lemonade. Just like always. Her upbeat aura both helped and hurt the serenity the two had created. But Mother was unaware.

"Lemonade anyone?" She asked smiling, the past years of strife and outrage had melted from her countenance.

Father knew he had to answer. He even knew he had to choose. He had to choose between his crippling grief or the supreme gratitude that his wife was back. He'd been putting it off, making this decision.

He sighed. In a way Alice had made the decision easy. Her final gift to him. He considered his youngest that looked up at him expectantly.

"We both do, right Cynthia?"

Cynthia responded to her father's positive attitude and took a glass that was dripping with condensation. She sipped and smiled. Father was sure that if Cynthia were to play the piano right now, she would play a happy song. Alice was gone, he would always, always love her, but Cynthia was right here.

He smiled at his wife reborn and took a glass too.

He folded out the newspaper and read about the headlines of the day. There was talk of a new Army boot camp being established right here in Biloxi. A new mayoral race was beginning and the incumbents were already jockeying for the popular vote. And shocker of all shockers, the Chicago White Sox had thrown the World Series! Father, Mother and Cynthia gasped, wide-eyed. Father went on to read that Red Faber who had almost been drafted as a pitcher for the Giants, was not involved.

There was a moment of silence as the three of them tried to understand how their glorious sport of baseball could be scandalized in such a way. "I'm glad it wasn't our Giants" Cynthia said solemnly. Mother and Father nodded in agreement.

"It's time for bed, young lady" father teased as he pulled his daughter to her feet and pointed her toward the door.

"We love you honey."

"I love you too, daddy!"

Cynthia beamed up at him, then skipped through the door and up the stairs.

Father put his arm around mother and pulled her close. He put his lips to her cheek and softly kissed her. Mother responded with a blush and a kiss in return. He put the newspaper down and together they went inside.

On the last page of the newspaper was an overlooked story from Mobile. A young woman, perhaps 19 or 20 years old had been run over by a team of horses. A capable doctor in the area did what he could but was unable to save her. She has been laid to rest in an unmarked grave in the local cemetery. Anyone knowing of a missing young woman should contact the Mobile police.

_**Please review! This is my first foray into a published work … I'd love to know your thoughts!**_


	19. Chapter 19

_**What if Alice had never been in an asylum …**_

_**My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!**_

_Alice's Story_

Chapter 19: _Muse_

Since my transformation I had kept track of Cynthia. I knew I could never make contact with her, but I loved her so much, I just wanted to know that she was ok.

It had come as no surprise that she was a virtuoso in her own right. I remembered the sound of her piano. She was so good! So tonight I was sitting high in the rafters of a concert hall in the heart of Biloxi. Cynthia would be playing to a packed house and I wouldn't miss it. Edward had offered to come, but I needed to do this alone.

A stuffy, cerebral-looking man in a black slightly-too-small tuxedo with tails came out onto the stage. He cleared his throat, pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and waited for the crowd to become silent.

He said simply "Ladies and gentleman … Cynthia Brandon."

As the crowd cheered, the stuffy gentleman bowed deeply and then edged off the stage. The lights came up and there was Cynthia, wearing a stunning jade green dress and a simple strand of pearls. She looked exactly the same, just a little older. She was smiling and she didn't look at all nervous. She put her fingers above the keys, took a deep breath and began playing.

Her music was more beautiful than I remembered. I closed my eyes and let it take me to a place in my fading human memory. Two little girls in a living room. One sitting at a piano and the other dancing around her. We were laughing. I could even hear Mother in the kitchen, cooking dinner. It was the before time when Mother smiled often. I let my mind find my elusive blonde dance partner. His eyes had turned dark in my mind, perhaps to match my own hungry eyes. I wanted to find him; I _needed_ to find him.

I pulled away from my winsome waltz to listen to Cynthia. I started to scan the crowd. My parents were here; I could feel it and I knew they wouldn't miss their daughter on her big night. I felt a little nervous as my eyes wandered through the faces in the audience. I found them right in front. Father looked so handsome. He was wearing a grey pinstripe suit with a red tie. I smiled at the thought of him. I loved my father so much.

At that moment, Cynthia's music crescendoed. My father and the woman sitting next to him stood up cheering, the woman's tear-streaked face beaming at her talented daughter. But was it Mother? I tunnel-visioned on the woman. I recognized so much about her, the color of her hair, the point of her chin and even the crinkle around her eyes. She turned to look at Father, then put her arms around his neck. I had never seen my parents hug in public.

They turned out of their hug to face the stage. Mother bent to pick something up from the floor. She had a bouquet of flowers. She threw them on to the stage as Cynthia stood to take a bow. I couldn't help but remember the play all those years ago. Mother's reaction tonight was exactly the same. I was mesmerized by the woman. It was my mother and it wasn't my mother.

Cynthia, Mother and Father left the concert hall and I followed. Cynthia was in the middle of them and their arms were interlocked. They walked down the sidewalk in the waning hours of the night talking about her performance. Mother and Father were gushing about her. They were right. It had been a wonderfully perfect night. I followed the whole time. They stopped in at Biloxi Bill's for pie and ice cream. I crept in unnoticed; I had gotten good at that, and sat in the booth at the very opposite end from where my family now sat. I could hear them talking. My senses had increased with my transformation.

They weren't talking about anything important. They were talking about Cynthia's music, and school, and the flowers Mother had thrown on stage. I loved that they were so happy. I loved that they were so comfortable with each other. I could see, quite clearly, that my absence had been good for everybody. I knew it would be good for Cynthia, but I had never imagined it would be good for Mother and Father too.

I sat back in the booth, grappling with what I was feeling. I couldn't sort it out. I closed my eyes. I wondered why I still dreamed about the blonde dancer. I had hoped that I would meet him someday, that I would actually be able to dance with him. Of late I had decided that my mind had created him as a way to escape the darkness of my human life.

Cynthia, Father and Mother left the diner. I did not follow. I knew I would never see them again.

I stayed in the booth. Something about my demeanor told the waitresses to stay away. I sat there, lost and confused. I considered my new family. Carlisle was so gentle, Esme treated me like a daughter, and Edward teased relentlessly, but he played the role of big brother pretty well. They accepted me and made me feel part of things. Something my human life had not offered.

It started to rain. I stared out the expansive window watching the roads turn shiny with the water and the sky darken with Mother Nature's tears. I wasn't really looking at anything. I was just lost and feeling alone.

The bell on the door announced the arrival of another diner.

The hair on the back of my neck started to stand up. I turned slowly, engaging all my senses, ready to strike if necessary. A boy with a cap pulled down on his forehead seated himself in the exact booth in which my family had been sitting. There was something about the way he moved that felt familiar. He was watching me too.

I walked over to his booth and stood beside him. He looked up at me as he took his hat off, befuddled by my closeness. He was beautiful. As beautiful as my mind had been telling me since I was a young girl.

"I've been waiting for you!"

I put my hand out to him. "My name is Alice Cullen."

The boy stared at me with dark thirsty eyes. He was used to people shying away from him, pretending he wasn't there. He had been on his own for a very long time. My brazen introduction was a shock to say the least. He did not answer. He just stared.

"Well … move over" I commanded.

Obediently he moved over. I sat next to him and took his hand. He was all smiles now. He tipped his head and with a slight Southern accent said "howdy, ma'am." He put my hand to his cheek. I recognized the same longing I had been feeling as I stared into his midnight eyes. We said a thousand things without saying one word. Finally I broke the silence, "do you like baseball?"

Carlisle, Esme and Edward liked him instantly. He put his hand out to Carlisle, "Jasper Whitlock" he introduced himself. Carlisle returned the handshake and then introduced Esme and Edward.

"We're taking your room, Edward," I announced matter-of-factly.

"I moved my stuff out already," he answered as he rolled his eyes. "I knew I'd lose the fight."

Edward moved to the piano, pulling a sheet of yellowing music from the piano bench. He knew me too well. He eyed me mischievously, watching my reaction closely. He sat down, held his hands above the keys, and looked up at me. My tentative look was enough; he laid his hands on the keys and worked his magic.

I stood by the piano, my wrists crossed, fingers entwined in themselves. I stared at my suddenly tangible and oft dreamed of dance partner, giddy and tingly inside. Even so, Edward's music, for just a moment, kindled my failing human memory once more. Cynthia's fingers would dance across the keys while I danced around the piano. Those were happy carefree times. I thought that was how my life would always be.

"Jasper" I whispered "would you dance with me?"

His white smile made me weak in the knees. "Whatever you want, ma'am."

He put his hand out to me gracefully and bowed deeply. We twirled around the piano as Edward played. For one last moment I remembered two little girls dancing in a living room filled with music and love. I held on to Jasper a little more tightly as I finally let go of my former life.

I looked into his eyes.

I let the waltz take me.

My new life starts now.

_**It seems Alice was meant to be a vampire no matter what.**_

_**I hope you enjoyed it! It was a lot of fun to write.**_

_**Tons of gratitude to Lily Moonlight. I would have never had the courage to put my story out there for anyone to read. Thank you my new friend!**_


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